


if you can, ease my pain

by dropofrum (95echelon)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, I ACCIDENTALLY WROTE FLUFF AGAIN???, Public Sex, public bedding, yay me.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 11:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13480680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/95echelon/pseuds/dropofrum
Summary: Warm eyes, and warm hands, and a smile like a new summer.She let her eyes fall closed, tilting her chin up like a flower seeking sunlight, but when his mouth brushed hers, dry, sweet, Sansa gasped, parting under his unexpected gentleness. And just like that, his tenderness evaporated, like kindling catching spark, one free hand slipping beneath her nape, angling her to kiss her deeper, his mouth opening over hers with heedless, violent hunger, his tongue sliding against hers withbreathtakingheat, in full view of a thousand witnesses.Warm eyes, and a warm smile; but Jon Snow kissed like a wildfire.





	if you can, ease my pain

**Author's Note:**

> this story is context free! :D  
> seriously, it's like, dany dies something something jon defeats nk something something the north rebels something or the fuck other jon and sansa have to marry because POLITICS IDK MAN STOP LOOKING FOR CONTEXT AND ENJOY THE SHITTY FLUFF.

_She isn't a virgin,_ a Westerling had snapped. _It's not as if we may examine the sheets, and know the deed's done._  
_Two of her husbands are already dead,_ a lady of House Dayne had hissed. _And one by her own hand.  
__The realm won't survive another war over the succession,_ a Marcher lord has rumbled, low and pensive. _Something must be done._

A pretty storm of words, but the result is a cacophonous demand presented before their young, battle-weary prince, heedless of the direwolf at his side, the Valyrian blade at his belt.

The bedding will be in the manner of the old kings of Westeros - it will be witnessed by them all.

* * *

They have, Sansa notes, with a sort of dulled numbness as she and the rest of the Kingsguard step into the bedchamber, been afforded at least the illusion of privacy.

Crimson veils flutter from the ceiling around the bed, double-paned and nearly-transluscent, sweeping the flagstoned floor, billowing when they catch the sea-breezes that gust into the room from over the Blackwater. The eastward wall of Jaehaerys Targaryen's bedchamber is missing in its entirety - marble columns line the edge instead, spaced wide enough to hold three men abreast, and the fresh, crisp scent of seasalt rolls into the room, the sound of waves crashing against the base of Aegon's Hill filling the air.

The veils part in the wind, revealing bedlinens as dark as a raven's wing, pillows encased in the same silk, a counterpane embroidered with a scarlet dragon, rearing in fury against a night sky.

Crimson and black.  
Fire and blood.

_Step into my lair, said the spider to the fly._

Sansa breathes unsteadily, and old words come to her once more, words from a song Old Nan had whispered in her ears a whole lifetime ago.

_"'Ice, my dear,' said the Queen Lyarra. 'Ice runs in your veins, as fire does in his. And where fires run out of fools to consume, ice stands. Ice stays. Ice_ **_survives_ ** _.'"_

The hand on her back grows firmer, as if to stop her from running away. She feels the cold, cold touch of her warden's mail-gloved hand press into her skin, through the thin protection of her linen shift. Goosebumps erupt when he touches her, and Sansa fights the urge to flinch away.

Sandor Clegane leans enough to bring his mouth level to her ears. "Go on now, little bird," rasps the scarred knight, with a gentle shove towards the empty bed. "Don't make this harder."

_Bird._

Sansa wants to hiss at him, to claw off what remains of his hideous face.

_Bird?_  
_She is a Stark.  
_ _A wolf, despite any vow they might have made her speak. And before the night is out, they will know- There is no taming the North._

* * *

Sansa sits in the center of the bed, still clad in her fine shift, hair loose and down her spine. She stares ahead, but the slope of her shoulders is relaxed, and her gaze is unfocused, as the Lords and Ladies who so solemnly watched her wed their king now steal avaricious, greedy glances at her form, at the way her skin is luminous, golden in the flickering candlelight, the blue of her eyes, like a winter rose.

To her onlookers, she seems... bored.

None of them note the jump of her pulse in her neck, the way her fingers tremble with every gust of the wind, not when her lips are bitten-red, long, pale legs tucked beneath her hips, rose-tipped breasts straining against the gossamer-thin cloth.

_Ice, ice, ice in your veins,_ Lyarra's voice urges, but the North may well be another world away; here in the Crownlands, the new gods reign. There is no one to heed her prayers.

Her eyes flutter shut, as if to shield her from prying eyes, and she is, once more, in Baelor's sept, the scent of incense thick beneath her tongue, and him.

Jaehaerys.  
_Jon._

* * *

He had taken her hand.

He had taken her hand, when the ceremony called for it, but there had been something in it, a sort of impatience, a look in his eyes like desperation...

His hands had been warm, so heavy with callus that the skin had dragged against hers, sending sparks of friction skittering down her arm, igniting a low, curling heat in her belly. Dragonfire ran close beneath his skin, as hot as embers in a dying grate, and when the septon had twisted a length of silk around their clasped hands, Sansa had been almost surprised the cloth didn't simply catch fire.

"...two souls, bound for eternity," came the septon's reedy, quavering voice, for all that it was suffused with joy. "Say the words."

His eyes were dark, unfathomable, the storm grey of a winter sky, and his face, gods-

_Gods-_

So familiar, those eyes and that jaw, the line of his nose and that wry, gentle twist of his smile. Ned Stark's ghost had enveloped this boy, this Targaryen _king,_ and Sansa _ached,_ she _grieved,_ for a family she had learned to love only after losing them all.

"Father," she whispered, a prayer, a plea, a cry to a man long burned, "Warrior, Smith," his voice resonating alongside hers, blue eyes glittering with unshed tears, locked on his. His grip around her hand turned tighter; his fingers trembled, the river of her grief cracking glaciers in his heart.

"Maiden, Mother, Crone," they said, and their entwined voices grew, stronger, surer, drawing them so near that every breath she exhaled was his breath, so near that the beat of his heart made her pulse race.

"Stranger," they said, and the sept fell utterly silent.

"I am hers-

-and he is mine-

-from this day-

-until the end of my days."

Warm eyes, and warm hands, and a smile like a new summer.

She let her eyes fall closed, tilting her chin up like a flower seeking sunlight, but when his mouth brushed hers, dry, sweet, Sansa gasped, parting under his unexpected gentleness. And just like that, his tenderness evaporated, like kindling catching spark, one free hand slipping beneath her nape, angling her to kiss her deeper, his mouth opening over hers with heedless, violent hunger, his tongue sliding against hers with _breathtaking_ heat, in full view of a thousand witnesses.

Warm eyes, and a warm smile; but Jon Snow kissed like a _wildfire._

* * *

When the room falls silent, she knows he is here, knows it from the way her whole body tenses though her eyes are closed, the weight of his gaze raking down her body.

She doesn't open her eyes, even when she feels the mattress dip with his weight, hears him slide closer. A hand slides along her jaw, hot and dry, cupping the side of her face. Sansa cats into the touch, unseeing, her whole body straining into that single point of contact. His breath gusts hotly against her cheek - Sansa's breath catches in her throat.

"Look at me," he rasped. His voice was a command, the voice of a warrior, a _king,_ and Sansa had squeezed her eyes tighter, rubbing her cheek against the rough, unfamiliar grain of his palm, sighing silently when his thumb smoothed over the arch of her cheekbone, rubbed impatiently at the peach- soft corner of her mouth, the shape of her full, soft lips.

Her pink tongue darted out, tasting the salt of his thumb, and his grip turned tighter, breath exhaling in a short, hard exhale. "Sansa," he whispered, sounding shaken, desperate, and the sound speared through her, ringing of victory. " _Look_ at me," he begged.

Her eyes met his, eclipsed in darkness.

"I'm sorry," he said, the words nearly drowned by the roar of the sea. "I'm sorry you had to come here. I'm sorry it had to be like this."

Sansa cocks her head to the side, and as if in response, Drogo roars into the night, turning the velvet-dark sky the color of hellfire for long, tumultuous seconds. She smiles, eyes hooded and her gaze on his soft, pretty lips. "Are you?" she asks, sounding distracted. He's still in his tunic, the laces at his throat loosened to reveal pale, Northern skin, a faint, dark dusting of hair, the strong, clean lines of him.

"Yes," he says, the word so hoarse it seems as if it must have been dragged from him. "I _am,_ I'm sorry-" His forehead comes to rest against hers, a hidden confessional of their own.

Sansa smiles, her lashes an auburn sweep against pinkened cheeks, her blood sweet and heavy beneath her shift. "I'm not," she tells him, and watches, with lambent, unfurling pleasure, as he draws back, eyes flying open in unfiltered shock. "I'm not sorry at all, your grace."

This time, _she_ kisses him.

* * *

Her mouth is soft, unsure; the tip of her nose presses into his cheek when she kisses him, a slow, unhurried meeting of strangers, their lips clinging together before she pulls away.

His breathing is quicker, his eyes darker, and they draw together helplessly for another kiss, and another, fingers trembling, hearts thudding. From over Jon’s shoulder, she can see the blurred outline of their onlookers, but the sound of the sea drowns out their existence, and Sansa shudders under his mouth, parting under the insistent heat of his tongue, unfurling like a summer bloom, heavy with sweet anticipation.

His hands cup the back of her neck, wrap around her small waist, rove restlessly down her back, her sides, and fire blossoms under his gentle, impatient touch, making her tremble, gasp against his lips. It’s too much, too sudden, the way he kisses her like she’s some lovely, precious thing, as if the skin beneath these clothes isn’t ugly, scarred, as if she isn’t-

_broken._

It makes her pull away, but he is relentless, pressing soft, hot kisses down her neck, worrying the knob of her collarbone with his teeth, hands growing bolder over her shift until she’s falling slowly into the mattress, her head meeting the black silk of the pillow with a soft thump. He cups a soft, heavy breast in his sword-roughened hand, thumb grazing a peaked nipple, and Sansa can’t stifle a shocked gasp when an electric flash of pleasure darts to her- darts _there,_ making her press her thighs together in silent desperation. Again, he repeats the motion, again and again, and Sansa claps her hand over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut, even though her spine is arching into his persistent, careless touch, a high, continuous whine rising from her throat.

His mouth turns downwards, ghosting over the transluscent fabric now. A kiss at the top of her breast, before his mouth fastens over the- _over_ the fabric, over her nipple, heat and wetness and the rasp of his tongue, and Sansa _keens,_ the sound breaking from her in a rush, a breath, a tidal wave. Her hands fist in his hair, her whole body thrumming like a pennant in a storm, dragging him up to take his mouth, slanting her lips beneath his, to swallow his groan against her tongue. Heady, rapturous kisses, as he bears her deeper into the mattress, a hand pushing her thighs wider apart with a trembling, leashed violence, before he sinks between her legs, shift rucked up against her belly.

Sansa is struck with the sense that he is holding back; he didn't want to hurt her, she realized with a shock of heady exhilaration. He didn't want to scare her.

"Jon," she whispers, against his mouth. "Jon," she says, and he pulls away, one arm on the pillow, the other caught beneath her waist. There is a band of deep colour across his nose and cheekbones, and when his thigh shifts, tucking tighter between her legs, she groans, harsh and guttural, thighs clamping around him, hips grinding against the hard, _perfect_ pressure.

His breath hisses between clenched teeth, one hand roughly palming her breasts, molding the flesh tighter, higher, teeth scraping down her neck, a furious, deliberate assault on her senses.

"Don't stop," she is whispering, as his thigh rocks against her slick, aching center, setting a sharp, relentless rhythm, his cock hard against the hollow of her hip, her nipples dragging against his chest, aching, cold from the damp cloth and sea air, and burning for him, his hands and his mouth. "Please, _please,"_ she finds herself begging, as he whispers in her ear, _how sweet she is, how perfect she is for him, how he wants her, wants her to cry for him, and scream,_ ** _beg-_**

His hand moved down, between her legs, where her blood gathered and pulsed, viscous like honey, molten and golden. There was a tug of fabric, a shift of his leg, before the tapes to her drawers fell open, revealing dark red hair, curled and glistening with moisture, and he groaned, shoulders quaking, his hand tightening roughly, involuntarily around her hip.

The ache renewed in her throbbing cunt, a feeling a painful, hollow emptiness, and Sansa squirmed against the mattress, whispering, "Please, Jon, you have to-"

_-to make it better,_ she wanted to say, but his hand came to rest between her legs, knuckles dragging up her soaking cunt, before rubbing a gentle circle at the top like an afterthought.

The sound that came from her was nothing so tame as a sigh; her spine cleared away from the mattress, her mouth open as she gasped desperately for oxygen, her whole being centered at the place where his fingers circled her burning, slick flesh, rubbing tight, quick circles, his breath issuing harshly against her throat, his open mouth latching against her nipple once more.

She was sinking, she was drowning, her hands scrabbled without purchase at the slick expanse of linen that covered his back, tangled in the raw, sweat-soaked silk of his hair, thighs opening wider still, hips jerking off the mattress to keep him _there_.

"I can't," she gasped, tears trickling from behind closed eyes, thrashing against the pillow as the feeling built and built, caught in her throat and filled her ears with a soundless roar. "Jon, _please,_ I can't-"

A scrape of wood against stone rang through the room, and the knowledge of being _watched,_ of their _eyes,_ crashed over them both like a northern wind, Jon stiffening above her, Sansa flinching away from his touch.

Someone rose from their seat, several someones, the soft thud of feet as they drew close, positioning themselves at the foot of the bed, and Sansa knew- she knew-

They would hold her down and let Jon fuck her, if that's what needed be done.

There would be _one_ king, _one_ realm, united beneath _one_ house. This Targaryen king would not be denied his Stark bride. Ice ran biting cold in her veins now, and Jon turned over his shoulder, and snarled, _"Stay_ ** _back,_** _"_ so cold and guttural that she flinched away. There was no civility in his tone, no trace of the king he had become - this was Jaehaerys Targaryen now, a boy turned general, a commander of armies, the man that had defeated nightmares.

And when he turned back to her, and said, " _Look_ at me," in that soft, lovely voice of his, all burred consonants and fervent heat, and Sansa had no choice but to obey.

To _see_ him.

His hands smoothed her hair away from her face, pressing their foreheads close once more, so achingly tender though his hand at her cunt was

restless still, circling, circling, slipping between her folds to invade the tight ring of muscle. "You're _safe,"_ he whispered, like a promise, a vow.

"You're _safe,_ Sansa," he said, like he had once so many moons ago. Another world, another time.

Sansa isn't sure why she believes him, but then his stubble is scraping the velvet soft skin of her neck, dropping kisses down the valley between her breasts, paying feral, pagan homage to her body. She sighs his name, half of a swallowed syllable, and he bucks into the mattress, cock straining upwards, blood pounding in his ears for need of her.

* * *

Ramsay was long since exorcised from her heart; monsters more terrible had come to her since then - dragons and the Dothraki, white walkers and undying kinsfolk. The Bastard of House Bolton had been fed to Winterfell's dogs long ago, but when Jon draws his hips to hers, their skin painted in hues of blood from the candlelight filtering through crimson curtains, it is Ramsay who returns to her, with his glittering, empty eyes and his hollow, broken smile.

Sansa stiffens, but Jon simply kisses her sweaty temples, hitching her hips a little higher, cupping the side of her face with heartbreaking sweetness.

When he breaches her, Sansa sucks in a harsh, salt-heavy breath, holding so painfully still she doesn't even blink, eyes squeezed shut. But the pain she expects never comes, and as Jon sinks into her, there's only a lush, molten feeling of fullness, and she gasps, eyes fluttering wide open, as her body accepts his invasion in easy surrender.

Her hands are shaking, her heart is thundering within her ribs, but she traces the dark line of his brow, the taut ridge of his jaw, the heavy flare of his nostrils.

"Sansa," he grits out, "Can I- I need to-"

It's so easy, so- so _simple,_ to draw his lips to hers, to swallow his harsh groan, and when his hips snap against her, erratic and sudden, her cry mingles in the humid air with his. And then they're moving, hesitant, sharp, shaky fingers tight over his shoulders, gasping with every thrust, arching into him, a storm coiling tighter in her belly, and _'Jon,'_ on every breath, _'Jon, Jon, yes, please, Jon.'_

Her climax shatters over them like a falling star, bright, silvered behind her eyelids, a tidal wave that has her crying out in desperate abandon. And Jon's control evanesces; he pulls away, kneeling between her thighs, tugging her hips higher, and thrusting harder, quicker, eyes slitted, every muscle pulled stark and tight, fucking into her limp, satiated body.

He comes with an aborted shout, in thick, hot spurts that Sansa can feel, before falling forward in a slow, uncontrolled grapple, propped up on a trembling forearm, his face buried in the curve of her shoulder.

Her heart's still beating too fast, still filling up her throat, and her hands shake when she drags a palm down his back, where the skin is satin-smooth over hard muscle, hot beneath her hands. _Dragonfire,_ she thinks nonsensically, and her eyes flutter shut.

The room is quiet, too quiet, and some small part of her realizes that their audience has left. The satisfaction that follows is a muted thing. Jon snuffles lowly into her skin, and her silly, stupid, _traitorous_ heart jumps in response, her hand tightening on his back, holding him secure against her, his heartbeat steady against her ribs.

_I am his, and he is mine._

The words return to her, just as his hands run gently down her sides, and he presses a line of soft, warm kisses up her neck, making Sansa shiver again, arch helplessly once more into his touch.

_From this day, till the end of my days._

A Stark for a Targaryen.  
Perhaps some things are inevitable. Sansa should know.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> lol remember when i ***insisted*** i was going on hiatus.  
> this was supposed to be for jonsakinks week but a) jonsakink fics are supposed to be very, _very_ hard E's and this is at best a hazy M? b) that's it, that's the reason, i'm SORRY I CAN'T WRITE PORN.
> 
>  
> 
> _(titled adapted from 'instructions,' by neil gaiman.)_


End file.
